Dialectic Melody
by Utenakun
Summary: Two points of view, two different times, a myriad of ways in which to say something without ever actually saying it. MP, Shounenai YxS, C.
1. So You Can Keep on Going

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Title: So You Can Keep on Going

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Author: Utenakun

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Series: Gravitation, presumably set before the end of the series.

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Summary: Just a little angsty musing. I like defending bastard characters. ^_^;;

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Rating: PG-13 for swearing (lots of it) and innuendo. Shonen-ai (Y/S).

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Disclaimer: I don't own any part or parcel of Gravitation, which should be fairly obvious from the mauling I'm about to do. Betaed by Subaru Sumeragi (thank you _very_ much!)

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I have one goddamn paragraph.

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He loved the way she hummed as she flitted around the kitchen, reaching into a cabinet to pluck a bowl or peering into the refrigerator for more ingredients. How he longed to simply walk in, catch one lock of that silky hair and tug her to him, enfold her in his arms before she even knew what had happened. She'd look up with an expression that was part surprise, part alluring innocence, and he simply wouldn't be responsible for anything that happened next.

It's absolute shit; you've been loudly humming-- composing, I assume-- the entire time I've been trying to write, and it's driving me insane.

Goddamn it, all my writing's gone down the shithole since you came. Forever barging in on me, asking does this sound good, does that look good on you, what would I like for dinner, I don't care! Get out of my face, can't you see what the hell I'm trying to do?

Not that I'm allowed to accord the same measure of disrespect to what you do. Every time you get a single goddamn idea in that empty head of yours, even if we're in the middle of something, it's just "Wait! Stop! Gotta get this down before my muse leaves me!" And while I have to admit, you having a worthwhile idea is an event of note, there are a _couple_ things I'd rather you didn't drop without a second thought.

Well, at least you don't stop in the middle of _that_.

Doesn't it seem slightly ridiculous to you? Just halting your life for whatever random bar or phrase or chord drifts into your head? Even when three quarters of it will be re-read once, shuddered over, and thrown out again? Good thing I don't have any muse to pander like that-- I kicked it out when all it was giving me was highbrow garbage no editor would touch, and deserting me when I was trying to write my first success in the romance line, done half in joke, half in desperation. It damn well deserved it, if it wasn't going to help me get my daily bread. And here I am, churning these suckers out from eight in the morning till eight at night like clockwork, unless I've got some little pink-haired dumbass interrupting my flow every six seconds.

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He twitched restlessly as splashes sounded from the bathroom, trying hard not to imagine what she looked like in the tub now, and now, and now. But he knew anyway, and knew what he'd see if he just gave into temptation as he so desperately longed to and flung the door open: she'd look up with an expression that was part surprise, part alluring innocence, and he simply wouldn't be responsible for anything that happened next.

That paragraph, in case you hadn't noticed, is the replacement to the first paragraph I wrote today, which was shit. Unfortunately, this one follows its predecessor quite neatly. You're not humming anymore, which is a relief, but it's too late for me to shut you out of my mind anyway. Those damned big blue eyes of yours are absolutely your worst trait, and that _is_ saying something. The glazed-over glow they get when you're drooling at Nittle Grasper's concert for the hundred and fiftieth fucking time. How they slowly start to shine when it finally enters your impossibly thick head that I've complimented you, against my better judgement. The way they squint shut, then snap open wider than I've ever seen them before, bluer than I've ever seen them, when I'm on top of you. How they crumple and well over with tears, staring up into mine begging to _just stop playing this game, just show me who you are_. Just-- God, your eyes drive me absolutely insane.

Your eyes are wrong, of course. You don't need or want to know me; I know what you really want. You want someone strong enough for you to lean on, fall on, even bodyslam every now and then, and you need me to be able to take it all without feeling a thing. Which is perfect, because I'm strong and I can show you that, there's no danger there. It's laughable, to think of you with someone fucking _emo_, someone who would gather you in his lap, tear up a little, and confess to you what's bothering him-- let's be realistic here, you wouldn't know what the fuck to do. You couldn't comfort, you're built to be comforted. You couldn't keep eye contact, keep your voice steady, or keep yourself from shying away.

You couldn't keep singing if you knew what I know.

Hell, I couldn't write, ever after.

So I'll keep scowling and you'll keep tearing up, begging me to open, give you another chance, please please be nice. And I'll give you exactly what you need-- but don't try to see me, because I won't let you. So that you can keep on going. So you can keep humming.


	2. What Inspires You

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Title: What Inspires You

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Author: Utenakun

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Series: Gravitation, after the end of the series.

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Summary: A theme of So You Can Keep on Going that withered in the story but branched into this continuation. Or, if you want to look at it another way, Shuichi's reply. Shonen-ai (Y/S).

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Rating: PG

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Disclaimer: Gravitation = not mine. God knows I could use the royalties, though. And love and kisses forever to Subaru Sumeragi, who betaed this for me. ^_^ It's thanks to her that any ooc on Shuichi's part isn't even _worse_.

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I like watching you-- not when you're writing, since you won't let me, but when you're inspired. It comes sometimes, even if you're quieter about it than I am. You just trail off a little, let the conversation down awkwardly, and your eyes flick towards the laptop. If we're not at home, you casually fish out a notebook, and you could be writing a reminder, a grocery list, a telephone number, a dirty joke, a math problem, a little wishlist of your favorite cars, a rant about the TV shows you wish they hadn't cancelled… but you're not. I can tell by the way a smile hooks in the corner of your mouth, the way your eyes look eager, as if you're finding something buried under sifting thoughts. Not at all like me, when I just jump up and scream how brilliant my latest thought is, huh?

But it's hard to tell _what_ gives you the ideas that you turn into such beautiful stories that I have to sneak into your office to read them, five or ten pages at a time. I mean, we could just be walking to the studio and suddenly your eyes will be focused a little beyond me, staring at… uh… a couple dirty cars, uneven sidewalk, a scraggly little tree? Nothing that would inspire _me_, that's for sure.

Maybe even you don't know what inspires you, maybe that's why you insist that there's no benevolent creator god smiling down on you, giving you ideas. When you're mulling over plot, you say stuff like, "And she's got to have slept with him by the time her lawyer tries to steal the inheritance, otherwise the such-and-such demographic will get bored…" Silly. You don't write for demographics, I'm sure. Because… because if you did, I wouldn't feel it the way I do, you know? I wouldn't read with my heart thumping, hoping and hoping she'll see through the lawyer and end up with her devoted gardener.

I guess you'd say it's the same as me saying I write lyrics for my fans… which I do, sometimes… but mostly I write for you. When I pry my eyes open because I can't stand my dreams anymore, awful loneliness or company that's-- that's worse, it's hard to do anything except lie there staring into darkness and just wish I would sort of fade… it's hard to keep singing, hard to keep writing. But it's you, your warmth beside me that can coax me to sit up and scribble something. Something of my dreams, good and bad, something of my own frightened hope, but also of something terribly beautiful that can't stay, but it doesn't matter because I'll follow it wherever it goes. And I hope you can hear in my songs how much I love you.

Someday maybe you'll show me something of yours, and say you were thinking of me when you wrote it. You know, that would make me really happy.

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You can't say things are right, even with the two of them curled around each other in bed, feeling that they're right where-- maybe not where they should be, but where they must be. They're where they belong, but there's something in the way he holds her-- a little too tightly-- something in the way she looks at him-- a shade too desperately-- that warns something is still not right. There's no need to say so; they both know it. And both cling, and gaze, and believe with all their hearts that if they just stay together like this, answers will arrive and they'll be able to face the rest of whatever is coming after them. Perhaps, after all, wishing does make it so.


End file.
